


these cold streets (made a man out of me)

by montecarlos



Series: Anti-Valentines Series [4]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Angst, Blood, Estrangement, Fist Fights, Gen, M/M, Rocky AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6052555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montecarlos/pseuds/montecarlos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Punch. Bob. Weave. Just like his father taught him. He lands another punch, his knuckles ache from the exertion, the sweat pours down his neck, it drips into his aching eyes, his mouth dry from biting down on his mouth shield as he ducks again. But his opponent anticipates it – Nico feels the pain shoot through him as the man’s fist connects with his jaw.</p><p>Nico always wanted to be the best, better than Ali. He's got a long way to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these cold streets (made a man out of me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ssilverarrowss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssilverarrowss/gifts).



> This monster was inspired by a few things; by the new film Creed (Michael B Jordan would be my fancast for Lewis if they ever made a film about 2014)., the original Rocky movie and Laila Ali (daughter of Muhammad Ali). Title taken from Last Breath by Future.
> 
> I know nothing about boxing, I don't even watch it. I based most of the fight scenes of youtube videos of Amir Khan and of Wladimir Klitschko fighting and of the Rocky movies. But I'm really proud of this and how it turned out; a lot of effort and research went into it. 
> 
> This fic is for the darling Lis, who is studying hard for some important exams. Smash 'em baby!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_  
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee – Muhammad Ali  
  
_

* * *

  
  
Nico had been born into this from a young age; he remembers watching his father’s old videos of Muhammad Ali on their television, he remembers his father’s trophies, his mother’s worried face as she came home late in the evenings with his father. He grew up thinking it was normal for fathers to sport black eyes, bruises, swollen jaws and bust lips. He remembers giggling as his father blows raspberries onto his face, his hair matted to his cheeks with blood, his eyes bloodshot and his skin heavy with black bruises. He never was allowed to go to the boxing matches, but he saw the photographs of his father standing proudly with his fists in the air, his silky yellow shorts seemed to glitter in the harsh lighting.  He remembers the medals hanging in one of the rooms, the trophies, the golden belt that has pride of place.  
  
However, his father doesn’t want Nico to be part of his world. He wants Nico to become a dentist, like he himself was supposed to become – something easy, something _safe_ – not having to go home to worried brown eyes or to the hospital to get another x-ray. However, Nico didn’t want something safe- he wanted the danger, he wanted the attention of the screaming crowd.  
  
He pauses the tape of his father’s welterweight win against the reigning Champion, Didier Peroni. He watches his father land the final blow and lift his arms to the baying crowd, his hair matted with sweat and blood. His father blows a kiss to the crowd and Nico spots the camera fall on his mother, her hand curved over her small bump.   
“For you and for Nico,” He mouths, smiling. Nico spots the blood on his teeth.

* * *

  
  
Nico watches as his father retires, he becomes a trainer to upcoming, young boxers, some of them barely older than Nico himself. Nico feels the jealousy twist through his chest as he watches his father train with them, tell his mother about the new Finnish boy he’s training over their dinner. He hates the boy already – Mika, they call him – but his father had insisted on a stage name of the Flying Finn. His father always liked to be dramatic. Nico hates that he has to share his father with this Mika, with the Flying Finn – that he’s taken his father’s attention away. Keke is no longer interested in Nico’s perfect A’s on his report card every term, nor does he attend Nico’s football matches. Nico just wants his father to notice him – that’s what he tells himself when he comes home one day with a bust lip and bloodied knuckles – one of the boys had called him a faggot and he’d swung out at him, not pausing to think about the consequences.  
His mother frowns as she wipes the blood away from his knuckles, staining the cloth bright red. However, his father smiles at his cut lip, at his bloody knuckles. There’s pride in his expression, like Nico has done something worthwhile.

* * *

  
  
Nico ends up going to a boxing club across town, far away from prying eyes, so the news can’t feed back to his mother. The guy at the boxing club – a wiry man called Anthony who smells like tobacco and sweat glances at him through narrowed dark eyes.  
  
“You’ll need to build a little more muscle,” He says, eyeing Nico’s lithe body with a critical eye.  
  
“I’ll do anything,” Nico says.  
  
“What’s your name, kid?” Anthony asks, taking a pull of his cigarette.  
  
“Nico,”  
  
Anthony doesn’t ask any more questions. He doesn’t need to, Nico presses the few crumpled notes into his hand and Anthony passes him the roll of bandage. The rough gauze sticks to his soft skin, like he remembers it sticking to his father’s hairy hands – his mother peeling off the material at the end of the night, after his father had shrugged off his gloves.   
  
Anthony starts him on cardio and weight training to build his muscles. He teaches Nico how to do some basic jabs, some punches that won’t break the bones in his knuckles. Nico feels a smile tug at his lips as he punches into the two hand-held bags that Anthony is holding out, his teeth stark white against his skin, pulled up into a smile as he watches the young blonde concentrating. Nico takes no notice of anything else in that moment, the gym melts away, the other people practising their shots seem to disappear, Nico doesn’t think of his father or his mother, nor does he think of Mika, he thinks only of his fist slamming into the bag, the muscles clenching, the sweat trickling down his neck and matting his hair to his forehead. He thinks only of the bright lights, of the crowd calling his name, of feeling alive, feeling the ache in his knuckles, every muscle alight, every drop of sweat cascade down the back of his neck…he wonders if this was how his father felt, why he kept doing it even after his mother begged him to stop.  
  
“Please, Keke, think about me-“  
  
He hits the bag, snarling, spittle dripping down his chin.  
  
“If I mean nothing to you, think about Nico, do you want him growing up thinking that _this_ is normal?”  
   
Normal, he thinks as he lands another punch.  
  
“It’s okay, Sina, he would never make it as a professional boxer anyway, he’s not good enough-“  
  
Another punch filled with hurt.

* * *

  
  
“I think you’d got something, kid,” Tony says, smiling widely as Nico stuffs his sweaty gym clothes into his bag.  
  
“Thanks,” Nico says quietly as he slings the bag over his shoulder and leaves.  
  
He eats quickly that night, feeling a little guilty as he quickly shovels the food into his mouth. His father is absent as always, probably in the gym with Mika, Nico feels the food weigh down in his stomach, he thinks about his father, he thinks about pounding the bags with Anthony’s sharp voice in his ear. He feels guilty; almost like he’s lying to his mother. His knuckles seem to ache more than usual under the guilt of his actions.

* * *

  
  
Nico continues going to the boxing club for an hour after school every day. He hides the bruises on his arms and over his shoulders and his developing muscles under thick, heavy sweaters.  His father doesn’t notice, he never does – Mika is doing well, he’s gaining more and more publicity and sponsors. His mother never mentions the empty space at the kitchen table, she just asks Nico if he’s finished his homework. He can hear the hidden meaning of her words – do your homework and be the dentist your father wants you to be – Nico remembers going to a parents evening with his mother and picking up the booklet with the courses in – the courses he wanted to do in higher education. His eyes hovered on the sport section, but despite glowing reports from all his sport coaches, Nico had to pick biology and chemistry. He hates it; he hates going to his room, glancing up at the faded poster of Muhammad Ali as he opens up his chemistry textbook. It feels wrong somehow – it feels wrong to simply scrawl into his textbook whilst the greatest boxer ever watches him with critical eyes. He can hear the taunts in his head – why don’t you go out and box? Why don’t you make your father proud? Why don’t you go out and be a man? He feels his jaw tighten, the pen seems to rip through the page.  
  
He could be a man, he thinks, glancing down at the ripped page.

* * *

  
  
He meets Lewis a few months after he starts boxing at the club. Lewis is all dark skin, baggy jumpers and a small wry smile. Nico wonders why he’s even there – there’s no muscle on him at all, he’s never seen him near the punchbags.  
  
“Hello,” were Lewis’s first words, he was leaning on the side of the wall watching Nico critically as he pounded his fists into the bag, felt the burn of his knuckles against the hard material.  
  
“Hi,” Nico replies, his tone sharp. He’s not here to make friends, he’s here to prove a point to his father. “I’m kinda busy, so-“  
  
“I’ve seen you here before,” His brown eyes burn into Nico. “You’ve been coming here for a few months,”  
  
Nico merely inclines his head.  
  
“You look familiar,” He cocks his head and Nico tenses. “I’m Lewis, by the way,”  
  
“Nico,”  
  
“So you want to be the next Rocky?” Lewis drawls, his eyes locked on Nico.  
  
“I want to prove myself,” Nico says shortly.  
  
“Prove yourself or prove it to someone else?” Lewis says, his eyes gleaming.  
  
Nico grits his teeth and turns back to his punchbag, he hits it harder than he usually does, feels the familiar urge of pain dance through his knuckles. He feels the anger surge through him at Lewis’s words, it’s as though Lewis can see straight through his façade, can see through the mask, see the cracks, the insecurities and Nico hates him for that.  
  
“It’s none of your business,” He spits out from behind gritted teeth, his fists aching as he slams them into the rough material, he feels his hair stick to his forehead. When he looks up again, Lewis is gone.

* * *

  
  
Mika turns professional. He gets more cameras following him around. His father is at home even less, his absence marked every time Nico and his mother sit down for dinner, she casts worried glances at him – he knows, he can feel them on his skin. She thinks it’s because he misses his father and he does to some certain extent.  
She even lets him stay up later that night to watch Mika’s televised fight with some hotshot from Germany, Schumacher, he calls himself. Nico watches Mika move around the ring with elegance and grace, he spots his father at the side with dark circles under his eyes. He watches Mika’s face contort, he watches Schumacher break Mika’s jaw, blacken his eyes and his hands itch underneath his jumper. His eyes land on his father, on his shining green eyes, on the wide smile, on the look of pride on his face – a look of pride that Nico has never received.  
  
Nico thinks of his gloves packed away in his bag under his bed, he thinks about the new bruises curled around his wrists and his knuckles.   
  
He’s going to make his father proud, he thinks. Nico trains longer after that night, he spends hours at the boxing club, Anthony spitting instructions in his ear. He feels the sweat pour down his face, he clenches his teeth around the mouth guard.

* * *

  
  
“I want to fight,” Nico tells Anthony. “I’m done fighting bags, let me fight somebody who can fight back,”  
  
Anthony doesn’t say anything, he just nods.  
  
Nico is pitted against some other punk – he’s obviously a regular of Anthony’s, tight muscle, dark eyes burning on Nico as he jumps up and down, there’s not a drop of sweat on him. He’s not controlled in his actions at all, he’s too young, too rash – the bell rings out. Nico takes a deep exhale as he steps forward, sliding in his mouth guard, readying his arms. The guy surges forward, his movements are clumsy. Nico blocks his first punch easily.  
  
It all seems too easy, he thinks as he dodges another punch and gets one of his own in, around the ribs. He thinks about all the bones he could break, the ones that he’s been learning about in his biology class, he thinks about his father standing on the edge of the ring watching Mika with critical eyes. Anthony’s shouts fade away and Nico becomes aware of his own breathing, of his lungs heaving, of his blood pumping through his veins as he lands punch after punch.  
  
I’m going to be as good as the Flying Finn he thinks. Bruises bloom over pale skin.  
  
_Flying Finn._  
  
Punch. Bob. Weave. Just like his father taught him. He lands another punch, his knuckles ache from the exertion, the sweat pours down his neck, it drips into his aching eyes, his mouth dry from biting down on his mouth shield as he ducks again. But his opponent anticipates it – Nico feels the pain shoot through him as the man’s fist connects with his jaw. It’s a dull ache as he lands punch after punch, Nico tries to duck, he tries to bob and weave like he remembers his father doing but this guy knows all the tricks. Nico ends up on the dusty floor of the gym, spitting out blood and feeling the ache spread through his bones, through his jaw.  
  
Weak. Useless. He thinks as the man turns on his heel and walks away. Anthony offers him a hand up, his eyes full of disappointment.  
  
“Looks like we’ve got some work to do,” He says, smiling.    
  
That night, Anthony tells him about his son, how he tried to train him but he never was good enough. Nico wonders if he’s good enough. He doesn’t tell Anthony about his father, about his father’s words about him never making it.  
  
He doesn’t need to know.

* * *

  
  
Nico pushes himself harder in the coming months – he runs up and down steps, along the beach in his grey tracksuit – he feels his muscles burn, feels his calves want to give in, feels his mouth dry out. It’s all worth it though he thinks as he pounds the bag again, every inch of muscle burns, aches, hurts – he trains for longer, he gets home later, his dinner is cold, but none of that matters. He has to win, he has to become the best. He lays on his bed late at night, gazing up at Muhammad Ali, looking over the man he wants to be. He wonders what he would be like to be as famous as Ali, to have the crowd call out your name, to have them adore your every move, to cheer when your fist meets your opponent’s skin.  Anthony tells him some clubs he can fight in – they’re horrible places, full of cheap beer and cigarette butts, of rowdy men covered in old bruises and crusted blood. Nico fights anyway. He wins. He smiles and lifts his arms up the crowd. It’s easy to pretend that he’s not in some dank club but in an arena like his father used to fight in.  
  
He comes home with a black eye. His mother says nothing, she looks at him with a look of hurt, of distrust when he makes up a story about some guy at school calling him names. The lie hurts more than the bruise.  Before long, it’s a bust lip, a loose tooth, a ripped earlobe.  
  
His mother says nothing. Nico can tell she wants to. She’s seen this behaviour before with his father. But she remains silent as he bolts down his lunch and leaves for the club.

* * *

  
  
“You need a nickname,” A familiar voice sounds out from across the gym.  
  
“You, again,” Nico says as he spins around to face Lewis who is watching him with interest. “Do you actually box or-?”  
  
“I used to, decided that it wasn’t my thing,” Lewis says off-handedly.  
  
“So what is your thing?” Nico asks.  
  
Lewis doesn’t answer.  
  
“Don’t want to answer? Did you try it and then get knocked out by some punk?” Nico presses him for an answer.  
  
Lewis just smiles at him. “I hope that you’re going to reel in your mouth when you turn professional,” He leans in closer. “That mouth might get you in trouble,”  
  
Nico watches him leave and doesn’t start punching the bag again until he’s heard the footsteps echo away.

* * *

  
  
His father ends up finding out when he happens to be scouting for new blood. Nico has just finished a fight, he’s wiping away the blood from his bust lip, blinking away the sweat from his eyes before the crowd seems to part and a familiar face appears before him. His father is furious, as to expected, his eyes seem to radiate fury.  He grabs hold of Nico’s wrist and pulls him away from the cheers.  
  
“What were you thinking? What kind of shit are you pulling?” His father spits as Nico pulls off his gloves in the back room.  
  
“I’m boxing if you hadn’t noticed,” Nico spits back.  
  
“No need to get smart with me, boy,” His father says carefully. “Your mother has been worried sick, thinking that you’ve got yourself into drugs or something – I never thought it would be _this,_ I promised your mother that you would never be involved in my world-“  
  
“Nobody knows who I really am,” Nico says. “You really thought that you could keep me from this world? This is the only way to get you to notice _me_.”  
  
“Notice you? What are you talking about?”  
  
“You notice nothing but your own little world, Dad,” Nico screams out the words. “Maybe I wanted to be a part of that, maybe I wanted you to be proud of _me_ for once, instead of someone else,”  
  
His father has no reply. He turns on his heel and walks away. Nico hates the silence more. He resists the urge to throw himself back into the ring but he doesn’t. He pulls on a fresh t-shirt and ignores the calls of the crowd.

* * *

  
  
His father throws himself into training Mika more – he’s getting more and more coverage – he also picks up another protégé to train, somebody from a gym close to their house that his father told his mother had potential. He hasn’t told his mother about Nico’s other activities, but he spends even more time at the gym with Mika. Nico hates it, he hates boxing for pushing his father away from his reach. But he continues training, he continues running around the park, the sweat sticking to his skin, he continues boxing random guys who come into the gym, he continues covering his bruises with bandages, dabbing away the blood from his bust lip.  
  
He has to prove his father wrong. He has to be the best.

* * *

  
  
“You know, you still don’t have a good ring name,” A familiar voice calls out. Nico meets brown eyes over the side of his punch bag. He spits out his mouth guard.  
  
“What are you doing here?” He asks.  
  
Lewis ignores the question, the smile curving over his lips. “You still don’t have a good ring name,”  
  
“Muhammad Ali didn’t need a ring name, why should I?”  
  
“Muhammad Ali wasn’t his real name though, was it?” Lewis’s smirk grows wider. “You need a stage name, to invoke fear into the hearts of your enemies, you know, like your father before you,”  
  
“How did you know?” Nico says after a moment.  
  
“It wasn’t hard, you look like him you know? You don’t use your last name, I was intrigued as to why you didn’t, I guessed it was because your mum didn’t want you to go into the family business,”  
  
“That’s none of your business,” Nico says, suddenly feeling wetness prick at the corners of his eyes.  
  
“I get it,” Lewis says, holding up his hands as though in defeat. “I get it trying to prove your worth to your dad, hell, I was like you a few years ago, boxed myself, but it was never enough, I wasn’t enough,” Lewis trails off after a moment, glancing down at the floor, at Nico’s mouth guard. “Anyway,” He levels Nico with a look. “You need a nickname,”  
  
“Like what? Champion? Knockout?”  
  
Lewis shakes his head, his eyes ghosting over Nico’s old training shorts – they’re grey, with silver stripes down the sides. Nico always trains in them. “Something like Silver Arrow, sounds less pretentious than the other options, I don’t know,”  
  
“Maybe,” Nico says.

* * *

  
  
Nico continues to train, he continues to box at the old club and his name becomes infamous in the boxing circles around town. His name gets bigger, more important – he becomes the person to beat in the inner circles. His bruises intensify, they become bigger and blacker, he goes home with bruises on his face and cuts to his lip from rings, he tells his mother that somebody called her a whore, a slut, whatever necessary to spare her looks of despair. However, he gets the feeling she knows. He hears her calling his father late at night, pleading for him to cut short his tour with Mika, but he knows his father’s answer. The heartbreak on his mother’s face is clear for him to see. Mika and JJ are more important to his father than his mother and himself – with Mika, he’s guaranteed fame and fortune, he’s reliving his glory years – he’s reliving the years when he used to be the one in the ring, raising his hands above his head.  
  
Nico can’t keep both lives – he puts away his biology textbooks, he tells his mother he’s not sure of his future life, he lies to her – tells her he wants to go into aeronautical engineering, something to do with physics, biochemist, whatever will keep her happy. He quits college, he doesn’t tell his parents. He just goes to the gym instead of to his classes, he knows his father will call him reckless, will say he’s no good, but he thinks about Mika, he thinks about the Flying Finn  - his father’s little protégé, a worthy successor to the Rosberg family heritage and forgets everything.  
  
  
Mika wins his first Championship the night Anthony tells Nico that he’s applied for him to turn professional.

* * *

  
  
Nico’s first fight as a professional is a disaster. He’s completely unprepared for it, dazed by the bright lights, by the large number of people there – Anthony straps up his hands properly for him, forces his hands into the smaller gloves, but it doesn’t matter in the end. Nico is defeated easily. He tries not to cry after the match, he stares down at his bloodied knuckles, his tongue swipes over the cut on his lip, the familiar metallic taste of blood spreading through his mouth. He thinks about his father in that moment, wonders if it’s all worth it. He’d barely got a punch in. He’d been on the floor immediately, spitting blood out onto the ring.  
He looks at his face in the mirror, at the fading bruises, hating himself, hating that he cannot become what his father wants him to be.  
  
“It’s a minor setback,” Anthony says, taking a pull of his cigarette.  
  
“You can’t know that for sure,” Nico says, wondering if he should just give up and go back to his books.  
  
“I don’t train glass jaws, son,” Anthony replies, smiling. It’s almost like he knows.

* * *

  
  
“I saw your first professional fight,” Lewis appears as though by magic after a strenuous training session. Nico places his skipping rope down on the bleachers and sits down, taking a pull of water.  
  
“Why do you care? I thought boxing wasn’t your thing?” Nico says, pushing the sweaty hair out of his eyes.  
  
“It isn’t,” Lewis shrugs. “I just wanted to see if you’d improved any since I saw you slumming it at the Williams club,”  
  
“And?”  
  
“I suppose you have, you’re an out-fighter but sometimes you distance yourself a little too much from your opponents and then your punches aren’t accurate but I suppose that will improve over time,” Lewis shrugs.  
  
“You sure know a lot about boxing,” Nico points out.  
  
“I come from a family who worships it, I guess,” Lewis says with disinterest.  
  
“Did you ever consider boxing yourself?” Nico asks, glancing at Lewis.  
  
Lewis shrugs. “I did a few times, but I guess it wasn’t my thing…anyway, so have you got a stage name yet? I noticed they called you Nico in the ring, it won’t be long before everyone knows by the way,”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“That you’re Keke Rosberg’s son,” Lewis says quietly. “You can’t keep it hidden forever, Nico,”  
  
Nico exhales deeply. “I’ll hide it for as long as I can. I want my own success, is that a bad thing?”  
  
Lewis shakes his head. “Of course not, I’m just saying, secrets never stay secrets in this industry.”

* * *

  
  
Lewis is right of course. Nico wins his next match with ease, the judges ruling in favour of him. However, somehow, it ends up in the papers and it gets out that Keke Rosberg’s son has been fighting professionally and he wasn’t there to support him – the media eat it up, of course, they cling onto the idea of them been estranged, they love the fact that Nico is carrying on his father’s legacy. His mother slams the newspaper down in front of him – he looks different against the black and white print – his hair shining in the bright lights, his face twisted, his arms lifted up to the sky, the headline proclaiming; _Rosberg son to carry on family legacy?_  
  
“I was reading this today and I found it interesting that your picture happens to show up, especially when you were supposed to be in class-“ His mother’s brown eyes are dark with anger, they remind him of his opponent’s. “So I called the college-“  
  
“Mum, I can explain everything-“  
  
“You threw away your future, your career, for what, Nico? For a few minutes of fame?”  
  
“I wanted to be noticed, I wanted to make my own choices in life-“  
  
“I can’t go through it again, Nico. I told your father to keep you from his world. I told him that I couldn’t lose you to his world too, to watch my son get the shit kicked out of him whilst I had to watch helpless-“  
  
“Dad didn’t bring me into this, he had no idea what I was doing,” Nico lies, it’s easy to lie. “And I found something I’m good at, I feel like I’m supposed to do this…it doesn’t feel like a lie,”  
  
His mother says nothing else.

* * *

  
  
At his next fight, he wins but his opponent knocks one of his teeth out. He stalks away from the illuminated ring, his tooth still caught in his glove, blood streaking down his neck. He spots a familiar face amongst the melted one of the audience, one with worried brown eyes, but he looks away as he moves to his dressing room.  
  
“I’ll call someone,” Anthony says, pressing a towel into Nico’s hands. Nico pulls off his gloves and clutches his tooth in his hand. It’s bright white, gleaming under the dim lights, the blood splattered across his palms. He dabs at his mouth, the towel staining with bright crimson and sighs heavily. He hopes his mother never finds out about this. It’s worth it, it’s worth the pain for the baying crowd, screaming out his name, urging him on.  
  
He ends up going to an emergency dentist with his tooth still clutched in his bloody hands. He laughs at the irony. The dentist raises an eyebrow at him; bloodied and battered in his trusty teal hoodie, holding his tooth out.  
  
“The other guy looks worse, believe me,” Nico says. The man doesn’t laugh. Nico tries to imagine himself in the white tunic, his eyes casting disapprovingly over people’s teeth. He tries to imagine himself in this safe life, the life that his parents wanted for him.  
  
He can’t do it. He can’t pretend. The tooth is beyond saving. Anthony pays through the nose for a shiny new cap. Nico looks at himself in the mirror and sees no difference between his real teeth and the cap. It was all worth it, it was worth it he thinks, as he knocked his opponent down to the floor, they called out his name – _Nico, Nico, Nico_ – he was reminded of his father in that moment, how they used to call out his name.  
  
I’ll forge my own legacy, he thinks, taking in his own reflection.

* * *

  
  
Lewis turns up to his next fight – it’s against some Polish guy who has won a few regional Championships. He allows Anthony to strap up his hands before he pushes on his gloves – he feels nervous for the first time, the lights seem to be harsher than usual, he feels the sweat pour over his t-shirt.  
  
“So what’s the plan?” Nico asks, glancing up at Anthony, hoping that the dark-skinned man can sooth his nerves.  
  
“Just like we discussed, he is a defensive style boxer, just get in his space, invade it, keep your punches tight and controlled-“ Anthony says, his voice barely audible over the din of the crowd.  
  
Nico nods as he slides in his mouthguard and allows Anthony to slide on his gloves. He presses them together and sends off a little prayer. The lights begin to dim slightly and the gong of the bell sounds like a death knell.  
  
He’s ready. He’s lost in the moment as he stands up, his heart pounding, sweat dancing over his skin. He readies himself to fight. He smiles when the Polish guy lands his first punch, pain blossoms over his jawline, it feels familiar, calming somehow. But the blossom of pain soon disappears under the adrenaline before Nico is soon pulling his own punches, feeling the ache of his muscles as they pound again and again – the guy dodges a few times, but Nico jabs him in the side of the head sensing weakness. The guy blinks a few times, throwing his own punch which Nico dodges with ease before he goes in for another punch. The guy falls onto the floor of the ring, the crowd call and bay, the noise level is indescribable as Nico backs off into his corner, his arms up and waiting. But the referee waves him off.  
  
The bell sounds once more, it seems like no time has passed. The crowd erupt, Nico tries to say calm as Anthony envelopes him in a massive bear-hug, he feels the ache dig deep into his muscles.  
  
“You did it, your first knockout,” Anthony yells against his ear.  
  
Nico feels numb, he can barely hear himself think over the din of the crowd. He feels nothing when the referee lifts his arm in victory. He pastes on a wide smile, feels the cameras flash over him, he’s tomorrow’s news. He exits the ring, pushing away the microphones thrust into his face, he can barely speak, his tongue feels like lead. He can hear Anthony talking to the press, telling them all about the offers he’s getting for Nico but the blonde can focus on nothing but getting back to the room, slipping on his loose hoodie and ignoring everything for a moment. He slips away, leaving Anthony to talk it up to the press.  
  
“Hiding away from all those people are we, Nico?” A voice pipes up. Nico freezes before he pulls on his hoodie, pushing his sweaty hair back from his face.  
  
“I’m not hiding, the press and media just isn’t my thing,” He shrugs.  
  
“What is your thing?” Lewis asks, softly.  
  
“Winning, feeling alive. The crowd helps me do that, when I’m in the ring, that’s all that matters to me, everything else just fades away,” Nico glances down at his knuckles – they’re bruised and battered.  
  
“And nothing else matters, right? You get drunk on the success, you want more, you want people to know you, to admire your craft before it’s too late,” Lewis leans in closer, Nico glances at his eyes – they look almost amber in the light. “But you’re afraid, I can see it, afraid of not been accepted by his world-“  
  
“I have to go-“ Nico says, pulling away.  
  
“Why? Because you’re afraid of showing your vulnerability? It’s what makes you human,” Lewis says, his eyes burn into Nico’s. “It’s okay to be vulnerable,”  
  
“Not to them, it isn’t,” Nico says, his eyes falling on the door, on the din of the crowd. “I’m a fighter, I fight, I go home, I train for the next one,”  
  
“And there’s room for nothing else in your life?” Lewis asks. He leans in closer, his breath ghosting over Nico’s cheek. However, another voice breaks through the silence.  
  
“Lewis? What are you doing here?” Anthony is standing by the door, arms folded, his eyes like steel. “If you’re here to see me about-“  
  
“I didn’t come here to see you,” Lewis says, the softness melting away – Nico misses it – as Lewis squares his jaw and faces the older man.  
  
“Forgot I existed now?” Anthony says, smirk curving over his lips.  
  
Lewis’s eyes darken in anger. “I could never forget you exist, father, but I can pretend,” He turns on his heel and leaves. Nico watches him leave, shocked. He had no idea that Lewis was Anthony’s son – that means – Lewis was the son that Anthony tried to train, tried to make him box – the one he rejected, the one who was cast out when Nico walked into his gym.

* * *

  
  
Nico continues to fight, he continues to win. He continues to see his name splashed in all the papers – Keke Rosberg’s son carrying on the family legacy – his father hasn’t contacted him but that’s to be expected, Mika is keeping him busy by demanding fights with the biggest and the best boxers. He keeps his head down, he continues training as hard as he can; the sweat pouring off him as he turns the skipping rope again and again, runs for miles and miles, anything to take his thoughts away from his father, from Lewis, from Anthony.  
  
You wanted this, his brain supplies, as he feels the flashes go off in his sweaty face after a match. He wants nothing more than to throw a punch at the photographers, to get them away from him – they want everything from him, they want to know everything about the son that Keke Rosberg doesn’t want to know. They ask him questions about Keke, about his love life, if he’s got a girlfriend – he doesn’t answer any of them. It feels wrong to answer questions, to put on a façade. He hears other boxers trash talking him – talking about how he only got pulled into the ring because of his father’s legacy. He’s used to such talk – he remembers when they used to say things about his father – he just keeps his head down, lets them speculate about everything.  
  
“I’ve got an offer I can’t refuse,” Anthony tells him one night after an intense training session.  
  
“Yeah?” Nico says, taking a pull of his water.  
  
“Schumacher wants to fight you. He’s heard a lot about you from the underground circuit, he knows that you’re Keke’s son and he asked me if you were available,”  
  
“Schumacher, as in the World Champion?” Nico says, fighting the urge to choke on his water.  
  
“I can say no if you think you’re unprepared for this,” Anthony says, throwing down his newspaper. Nico looks down at it, he sees his own face covered in sweat and matted hair, his expression one of passion and anger as he raises his arms to the sky, the crowd baying around him – the picture doesn’t capture the true feeling of winning, the thumping of blood in the veins, everything blurs, everything seems to slow down. The paper seems to have picked up on Schumacher’s comments as above the photos of Nico are the words; _Schumacher talks down Rosberg Jr.  
  
_ He spots a familiar name underneath the headline.  
  
Written by Lewis Hamilton. It all makes sense now; why Lewis and his father don’t speak. Lewis didn’t want the life that his father set out for him. _  
  
_ Nico doesn’t need to read the rest, he knows what it will say. He imagines his father reading the article with his ever present cigar in his mouth.  
  
“Schedule the match,” Nico says.  Maybe this is what he needs to step out from behind his father’s shadow.

* * *

  
  
“You never told me that you were a journalist,” Nico says, smiling as he watches Lewis’s shoulders tense up.  
  
“It never came up in conversation,” Lewis turns, Nico can see the hurt in his eyes. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“Because you seemed to want to write all about me and smear my life all over the papers, so I figured I’d find you and ask you about yourself. Perhaps we could start with why you decided to be a journalist instead of a boxer like your father wanted, I heard from him that you weren’t exactly up to scratch-“ Nico feels a slap hit his cheek and glances at Lewis.  
  
“Don’t presume to know anything, Rosberg,” Lewis says, his voice edged with hardness. “There’s two sides to the story, that’s what my job taught me. I might not be fighting in the ring as you do, but I have my own scars,”  
  
“Scars from what? From papercuts?”  
  
“I used to be a fighter myself, Nico,” Lewis says, his eyes dark. “But I wasn’t as strong as you, I let everyone who doubted me win my battles for me. It isn’t long before you start believing everyone else more than yourself. I wish you luck against Michael, you’re going to need it,”  
  
“You don’t think I’m going to beat him?” Nico says.  
  
Lewis laughs. “I don’t doubt that for a moment. But I think your ability to prove people wrong is your strength. Schumacher is human, as are you. It’s anybody’s fight,”  
  
Nico doesn’t say anything else.

* * *

  
  
The fight is scheduled in two months time. Nico trains harder, pushes himself, presses more weight than he ever has before, he runs miles and miles day after day, wrings the sweat out of his trusty teal coloured hoodie, feels the muscle burn, his bones ache. He thinks about his father, he thinks about Mika, a world famous boxer now, he thinks about Lewis in his office working on another report with his name attached to it, he thinks about Anthony, the man who wanted fame and fortune and could never attain it. He thinks about himself – he’s merely a kid from some neighbourhood, he wonders how Schumacher even came across him – he wonders if it’s his father’s name, attached to his own, attached to his legacy. He doesn’t want to be branded with the same legacy, he wants to create his own. He has to forge his own.  
  
“Are you afraid?” Anthony asks him one night. Nico has been sparring with another guy from the gym. Nico pulls the gauze off his hands and eyes his trainer.  
  
“Afraid of what?” Nico asks.  
  
“Of Schumacher, of failure,” Anthony says a little quietly.  
  
“Isn’t everyone?” Nico says. “Look, I know the repercussions of what could happen every time I step into that ring, but none of that matters. I don’t want to beat Schumacher, I just want to last in the ring against him, I want to be the guy who lasted ten rounds against the world champion, I want to be worthy of his respect, to gain respect from the crowd, not for my name, but for how I fight,”  
  
“Let’s go over your stances one more time,” Anthony says, changing the subject.  
  
Nico nods.

* * *

 

I was wondering if you are going to give an interview soon, regardless of the outcome, I think it would look better if-“ Anthony says.  
  
“I don’t do interviews,” Nico says shortly. “I’m there to fight, not to make myself look good in front of the papers,” He pauses for a moment, thinking about what Lewis said, about there being two sides to a story.  
  
“I’ll think about it,” Nico says, ending the conversation.

* * *

  
  
“Anthony,” He says, glancing down at the bag. “I’m ready to do an interview,”  
  
“Okay, who with?” Anthony says, looking over his lists frantically.  
  
“I have someone in mind,” Nico says, smiling widely.

* * *

  
  
“You want me to interview you?” Lewis says with widened dark eyes. “But I-“  
  
“You’re the only one that I will speak to,” Nico says, watching him carefully. “I’m not going to talk to anyone else,”  
  
Lewis makes a non-committal noise. “Okay,”

* * *

  
  
“I suppose I should start with the obvious question; why did you decide to come into the sport? Is your father really against your career?” Lewis asks, his eyes focused on Nico.  
  
Nico pauses for a moment to consider his answer. “I came into the sport because I’d been exposed to it from a young age, I loved watching my father’s old videos of him competing, of Muhammad Ali, of all the greats. I wanted to be like them, I wanted to be respected, I want to feel the blood pumping in my veins-“ He stops. “But my father didn’t want my life to be like this, he respected my mother’s wishes-“  
  
“So it was your mother who didn’t want you to box?”  
  
“I don’t blame anyone for forbidding me to box,” Nico says, watching the dark-skinned man carefully write into his notebook, his eyes still resting on the blonde. “I just wanted to do something, like your father wanted you to box and you did the opposite-“ Lewis’s pen stills on the paper.  
  
“We’re not here to talk about me, we’re here to talk about you,” He stops for a moment. “So are you excited for the match? Scared? Apprehensive?”  
  
“It’s just another match and I’m not saying that in a cocky, arrogant way. I just see it as another match, he’s the World Champion and I respect that, but it’s just another match for me,”  
  
Lewis hums and continues writing. “Is your father coming to cheer you on?”  
  
Nico worries his lip. “No, he isn’t, he’s busy,”  
  
Lewis doesn’t say anything else, he just continues writing, scrawling down words in his notebook.

* * *

  
  
The months seem to melt away – Nico continues training, continues spending every spare hour in the gym preparing himself for his battle with Schumacher. He keeps his head down, keeps running the extra mile on the treadmill, keeps skipping that extra five minutes, keeps examining videos of him punching, of him fighting, of Schumacher fighting to figure out his techniques. He pauses the video and rubs his eyes. This time tomorrow night, he will be fighting Schumacher in the ring. He glances down at the papers surrounding him – Schumacher has been constantly talking to the press about Nico, about how he is nothing more than a little boy holding onto his father’s name. Nico remains silent – many of the newspapers want to speak to him, they want to know everything about Nico, about the new elusive boxer on the scene. But Nico says nothing. The interview with Nico came out a few days ago, his own face staring back at him from the glossy magazine.  There’s a copy of it on his coffee table but he hasn’t opened it up yet, he can’t bring himself to see what Lewis wrote about him.  
  
“You should go to bed,” Anthony’s voice pipes up from behind Nico. “You need your rest,”  
  
“I know,” Nico says, turning off the television.

* * *

  
  
The day of the fight arrives. Nico tries to continue with his life as normal, tries not to think about the evening, he tries not to think about all the people attending, about the lights that will be on him as he prepares to take on the World Champion. He ignores his phone buzzing every two minutes as he tries to focus on the book before him. He doesn’t want to train, he doesn’t want to tire himself out before the match. He lets his eyes ghost over to where his phone is ringing and his heart stops as he spots the name of the caller.  
  
“Hello?” He says, fumbling to press the correct button.  
  
“Nico,” His father says after a moment. “I understand that you have a big fight tonight,”  
  
“I do,” Nico replies, worrying his lip. “Do you want tickets or something?”  
  
“I can’t make it, I’m afraid, I’m out in the States with Mika doing some very important work,” _And you’re going to lose anyway so what’s the point_ remains unsaid. Nico swallows the bitter taste that swirls over his tongue.  
  
“Okay,” He says, shortly. “Did you call just to tell me this? Give me a bit of a pep talk before the fight of my life?”  
  
His father laughs. “Of course not, I think your mother wants to come to the fight tonight,”  
  
Of course, she does. “Okay, I’ll leave her some tickets with my guys backstage,” Nico says.  
  
There’s no reply, only a dial tone. Nico rubs a hand over his face as he stares down at his phone. He’ll prove himself tonight, even if his father isn’t there to see it – he’ll see the aftermath in the newspapers and on the news stations. He throws the phone down and glances at the gauze sitting on the table. He picks it up, beginning to wind it around his fingers, smiling at the rough sensation over his callouses. He ends up hitting the bag harder than he usually does, letting the fury drift over him, letting his anger and frustration out into the hard material. He doesn’t pretend it’s his father’s face he’s punching, he’s past that – he’s past proving anything to his father anymore. He’s going to prove it for himself and for Anthony.  
  
He punches one more time and the bag tumbles to the floor. Nico tries to imagine Schumacher in that position, lying on the floor. He feels the smile tug over his face at the image.  
  
He’s going to do this.  
  
He ends up opening the magazine up, reading the words splashing across the page – _Nico Rosberg; the New Enigma of Young Boxing?_ The headline screams, Lewis’s name proudly sitting on the top of the article.  
  
_Nico Rosberg sits before me – he’s just completed another challenging training session, it’s clear from the sweat sticking to his hair, from his reddened cheeks. However, there’s something else that strikes me about Nico – his determination and will is clearly visible, even when his hands aren’t bound up in gloves and he’s not in the ring. His story is a remarkable one – he’s supposed to follow in the family footsteps, to carry on his father’s footsteps. It’s a pressure that he has had to deal with growing up, second-guessing himself, wondering if he should pursue his true calling. His story is also one of sadness – his parents never seemed to accept his talents in the ring. He’s been estranged from them for several years, they never attend his matches to show their support. Rosberg never lets this tragic fact get in the way of his dreams. He aims to rewrite history, to erase his father’s past and rewrite his own chapter in the boxing history books…  
_  
It’s a well written article, Nico thinks. Lewis describes him as a young, determined man who wants nothing more than to succeed in life and to prove his critics wrong. He focuses a little too much on Nico’s family and his family boxing background a little too much but it cannot be helped – it’s a big part of Nico’s life. He closes the magazine and glances at the clock, sighing heavily. He picks up his phone and dials a familiar number.  
  
“Hello?” Lewis’s voice echoes through the speaker.  
  
“I finally read your article,” Nico says after a moment.  
  
Lewis hums. “So what did you think? I figured that you were angry with me over it-“  
  
“For what? Telling the truth?” Nico says, the smile curving over his lips.  
  
“Well, you hate talking about your parents, you hate discussing your life,” Lewis says, watching Nico carefully.  
  
“Well, I’m not here to discuss history that is in the past, I’m here to rewrite it,” Nico replies. “So will you be at the match tonight?”  
  
“My boss wants me to write a report of the fight,” Lewis says, smiling.  
  
“I’ll see you there then,” Nico says, before he hangs up, he feels something flutter in his chest. He decides to go out for a run around the city, throwing on his favourite loose hoodie and his trainers. He pounds through the streets, his rap music is tinny in his ears, he’s ready, he’s ready to show the world the true Nico Rosberg, to come out of the shadows.

* * *

  
  
Nico takes a deep breath as he steps out of the car, ignoring the calls of his name, ignoring the microphones and the flashes and the questions shouted at him – they all seem insignificant, to fade away into the audience. He’s pulled forward by Anthony who shouts that his client will not be taking any more questions today, he has a fight to prepare for.  
  
Nico sits in his dressing room, glancing at himself in the mirror, listening to the baying crowd upstairs, his heart jumping against his ribcage. He takes a deep breath, urging himself to calm down. He tries not to think about the people waiting for him to appear in the ring, tries not to think about the lights bearing down on him, wonders if his mother is at the side of the ring with worried eyes, if his father is watching the match on the television with a glass of whiskey in his hands.  
He can stand the silence, the waiting no more. He stands up and moves into one of the side rooms. Pulling on his gloves over his strapped hands, he exhales deeply, closing his eyes before he moves forward, catching the punching bag with hit after hit. Between attacks, he closes his eyes, pictures Schumacher before him, his face contorted in pain.  
  
“You pack quite a punch,” A voice pipes up from behind Nico.  
  
Nico spins around, sweat still pouring down his face to see Lewis leaning on the wall, looking at him.  
  
“How did you get in here?” Nico says, his voice quiet. “This is supposed to be private,”  
  
Lewis waves the VIP pass in front of Nico’s nose. “I have my ways, as I am sure you do. I just wanted to see how you were holding up,”  
  
“Why do you care?” Nico says.  
  
Lewis moves closer, his eyes darker than usual. “I’m not sure, I suppose I should run away from this world, I should get away from it but something keeps pulling me back-“  
  
“And what’s that?” Nico fires back, worrying his lip.  
  
“I’m not sure yet,” Lewis says, glancing at Nico’s lips. “Anyway, I better go and find my seat-“ He turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Nico alone.  
  
“Hey, Hamilton?” Nico says, making the other man spin around. “Make sure I get a good write up in tomorrow’s news,”  
  
“Of course,” Lewis says, smiling as he walks away.

* * *

  
  
Nico feels numb as Anthony slides the new silky robe over his shoulders, he hates the fact that it says Rosberg on it, shining brightly in gold, red and black – German colours, he realises – but he knows that it’s a part of his life, a part of his life that he must stop shunning and merely accept for what it is. They can trash talk all they want but he’s worked his arse off to be in this position. He glances in the mirror at himself one last time before he slides in his mouthguard and takes in his own face, looks at his golden hair, at his face devoid of all bruises.  
  
“Lets go, Champ,” Anthony says to him, yelling into his ear over the din of the crowd as he pulls Nico forward.  
  
His legs feel like jelly, his body like steel as he walks forward, the lights immediately falling on him. He tries to calm his breathing, he lifts his hand up to the crowd and gives them a weak smile – there’s no point on making a new persona now, trying to pretend he’s something he’s not. He tries to spot his mother and Lewis in the crowd, but they seem to blend together, to disappear. The noise is indescribable, Nico can barely hear himself think as he steps into the ring and moves from foot to foot, feeling his blood pumping, his heart beating against his ribcage.  Schumacher steps into the ring – his blue eyes fix on Nico as he shoves his gold-leaf mouthguard in, moving towards the centre of the ring.

  
Nico has to remember to breathe as he steps forward, their gloves entwined for a moment, coarse material brushing before the bell sounds and the two man step apart, their arms moving up into defensive stances, neither one sure who will throw the first punch. Nico can hear nothing but his own blood pumping in his ears as Schumacher leans forward and throws the first punch. Nico dodges it easily, correcting himself as he stalks around the ring, sizing Schumacher up, looking to see where he can inflict damage.  
  
“Come on,” He whispers to himself, imagining his father is watching at ring side.  
  
He surges forward, to punch Schumacher but the older man dodges out of the way and follows with a quick sharp punch to Nico’s ribs. Nico feels the breath leave his lungs for a moment, the pain blossoming across his side but he smiles through the pain. He can deal with the pain, he’s something he expects from a fight – he dodges the next one, finally landing a punch at the side of Schumacher’s jaw.  
  
Schumacher staggers back before correcting himself – he clearly wasn’t expecting for Nico to hit him in the face and correct himself so quickly – there’s a smirk curling over his lips, around the mouthguard, his eyes cold and distant as he aims punch after punch to Nico but Nico takes every one – he thinks nothing but of the pain, of the one thing his father used to say – it’s not about how hard you can hit, but how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward – the audience don’t matter, Schumacher doesn’t matter in that moment. Nico feels dizzy, he feels tired, the pain tugging at his bones – but he can’t give up. He promised a good fight, he wanted to take Schumacher to the end. He repositions himself and begins dodging Schumacher’s fists, he moves in tighter, cutting Schumacher off like a caged animal, fighting him against the ropes. Nico feels his teeth grind against the mouthguard, the sweat drip down his back as he aims punch after punch at Schumacher’s face. Schumacher is knocked down to the floor – the crowd seem to go silent for a moment before they erupt.  
  
The bell sounds out and Nico retreats back to his corner, accepting the towel that Anthony presses into his gloves.  
  
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Nico says thickly into the towel. “That was the first round,”  
  
“Nine more to go,” Anthony says, smiling.

* * *

  
  
Nico steps back into the ring, the crowd baying around him, the lights shining down on him. Schumacher is already ready, his arms out in front of him, his bright red boxing gloves held in front of him. He throws the first punch again – Nico feels the pain blossom over his nose, feels the dull ache settle in as he grits his teeth around his mouthguard, pulls back his fist and squares his own punch. He ducks out of the way of Schumacher’s next punch, backing away slightly as the two men circle one another like wounded animals.  
  
Give it up, Nico thinks, the sweat pouring down his face, his ears are ringing and his mouth is dry. Schumacher lands another punch to Nico’s stomach, Nico doubles over – the crowd seems to hold their breath, they wonder if this is the moment that Nico’s star fades away – Nico thinks about nothing in that moment but surviving – he doesn’t think about his parents, about his mother probably biting her nails in her seat, about his father watching it with critical eyes, he doesn’t talk about Lewis watching the match with a pen in his hand, his eyes glossing over every detail, committing to the newspaper page. He thinks only of himself, only of what he wants to forge for himself. Schumacher is more technically gifted, he is a better and more seasoned fighter – but it is not always the strongest who wins, Nico thinks. He blinks as the bell rings out once more and the two men retreat into their corners.

* * *

  
  
Another round fades away, followed by another – Schumacher continues to punch away at Nico – Nico feels his nose snap towards the end of the fourth round – there’s a sharp splinter of pain that ripples over his face, he feels white-hot pain and his ears ring and the lights seem too bright…but he breathes through his mouth, around his mouthguard as he sinks another couple of uppercuts into Schumacher’s chest making the man sink away, his face carved up with pain. The two men are beginning to exhaust as they circle one another again, their arms up and ready, waiting to deflect any punches. Nico feels exhausted, his shorts are soaked with sweat, it drips down over his back, his gloves feel heavy; like lead as he backs away with the sound of the next gong.

* * *

  
  
“You’re not one to give up easily are you?” Schumacher spits out in the next round as he aims another punch at Nico, who takes it easily and spits out the blood in his mouth.  
  
Schumacher looks down at the blood splattered on the floor. “You’re a fighter, I’ll give you that, you’re just like your father,”  
  
Nico glances up at him. “I’m not my father,” He whispers, aiming a punch to the gut before following it up with a well-aimed clip to the head. However, Schumacher smiles through the blood and bruises and he comes back – he knocks Nico down at the floor. Nico feels his knees hit the dusty floor, feels the ache pulse through him, feels the sticky, hot blood drip down from his nose. He watches the crimson liquid hit the floor and frowns heavily, suddenly aware of the crowd. He glances around to see if he can see his mother or father, he hears nothing but the screams.  
  
The bell chimes again and Nico pulls himself up from the floor and staggers over to Anthony.

 

* * *

  
  
The next two rounds melt away and the two men become sloppier and sloppier, they fall against the ropes a few times, their muscles begin to ache, the adrenaline begins to ebb away from their bodies. They both face one another, both exhausted, both covered in sweat, neither wanting to give up as they both punch each other again and again, wherever they can reach – Nico keeps going for the side of Schumacher’s jaw, Schumacher keeps trying to hit his nose – sticky blood still pouring down his face, his ears are ringing, he feels the sweat pour down over his chest, his mouth feels dry and slightly metallic from the blood.  
  
“Just give up,” Schumacher screams out. “You can’t beat me! Your daddy isn’t here for you to prove anything to!”  
  
Nico says nothing as he wipes away the smear of blood from his mouth, his eyes dark with anger as he steps forward.  
  
“I’m not here for my father,” Nico says quietly. “I’m here because nobody believed in me, not even my own parents, so I had to believe in myself, I had to believe that I could beat you,” He moves around Schumacher, the blood still flowing. “I still believe in that,”  
  
Schumacher smirks as he throws another punch but Nico takes it as he always do, his green eyes fixed on the World Champion. “You shouldn’t have doubted me,” He says as he lands his own punch. The two men stagger away at the sound of the bell.

* * *

  
  
The next two rounds seem to disappear within the blink of an eye – they seem to be over in seconds rather than minutes, Nico think, as he slinks back to his corner and wipes his leaking nose once more. It’s the final round – he aches, it’s deep within his bones, it hurts, everything hurts – the pain blossoming over his shoulders, down into his knuckles, over his ribs – his heart is still beating, his body still clinging to the vestiges of adrenaline. He keeps going though, the audience seem to fade away into the background, their faces seem to blur as he dances around Schumacher – who is holding his ribs, Nico knows that stance, he knows he’s broken a few ribs and a smile comes to his face at the thought. He had broken some of the World Champion’s bones – it served as a reminder that he was human, as Nico was – he was beatable, he wasn’t untouchable – Nico is so caught in his thoughts that he doesn’t realise Schumacher’s fist is up against his face. Everything seems to move in slow-motion, Schumacher pulls his fist away, Nico feels his head snap back, he feels his knees crumble.  
  
This is it, he thinks, this is how it ends, with a mere whimper. He closes his eyes for a moment, he tastes sweat and blood on his tongue.  
  
“Get up,” He hears the crowd yell out. He struggles to get up, the referee hissing into his ear that he has a few seconds.  
  
“Nico!” He hears the voice through the others – it’s Lewis’s, he’s sure of it – he wonders if he imagined it, surely Lewis was busy crouched over his notebook, scrawling down Nico Rosberg’s last moments in the match. But it cuts through the air, clear like a bell. He opens his eyes and climbs to his feet, swaying slightly as his eyes meet Schumacher’s.  
  
“We go til the end,” He says.  
  
Schumacher doesn’t reply as he moves in for the final time, the two men grapple with one another, Nico hisses in pain as his hair is tugged, Schumacher’s rough glove rubs over his cheek. “I don’t want a rematch,” Schumacher whispers in his ear.  
  
“Don’t want one,” Nico slurs out, the two men clearly exhausted, their punches are half-hearted, they barely cause any damage, the sweat mixing together on their bodies. They hear the crowd counting down – they both pull apart as the final bell goes, the crowd remains deathly silent as both men stay in their corners and await the decision.  
  
I got to the end, Nico thinks, unable to keep the smile from his face as he pulls out his mouthguard.

* * *

  
  
The cameras turn on the two men, the microphones shoved in their faces but Nico turns his head away, tries to ignore the influx of questions as his eyes lock on the crowd – his eyes suddenly land on his mother, she’s applauding, there’s tears cascading down her face. He looks away, unable to keep her glance for too long. He wonders if Lewis is still here, if he’s still writing in that notebook of his -   
  
“Mr Rosberg, how did you feel about that-“  
  
“Mr Rosberg-“  
  
“Lewis,” He hears himself call out, his voice hoarse, it seems to disappear into the din of the crowd. “I need to see Lewis!”  
  
But they don’t listen, they only praise him for holding up against the World Champion but their words are useless, they mean nothing to Nico. He calls out for Lewis again, calls out in the crowd – the lights bright, his tongue still sticky with metal and salt.  
  
“And the winner, by the judge’s scoring, is Michael Schumacher!” The announcer calls out, and the Champion is swarmed by microphones, flashes capturing his bloodied and battered face, he smiles, holding his hand up to the crowd as though to thank them for their support, the other still clutching his injured ribs.  
  
He finds he doesn’t care he didn’t win, he’s accomplished something, he knows this is just the beginning.  He calls out for Lewis again, swiping his glove over his sweaty head.  
  
Then as though by magic, the crowd seems to part and Lewis appears in the ring, smiling widely. He moves forward, glancing over Nico’s injuries with a critical eye. Nico pulls him into a hug, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, his chin buried on Lewis’s t-shirt, his gloved hands clasping the older man around the waist.  
  
“You almost killed yourself out there,” Lewis scolds.  
  
“But I’m still here,” Nico says, feeling the smile cling to his lips. “So did I make the front page of the news?”  
  
“I think you did a hell lot more than that,” Lewis says, pulling away after a moment. “You’re absolutely insane, but my god, you did incredible out there,”  
  
“Thank you,” Nico says, his hand finding Lewis’s. “I’m pretty sure I’ve broken a few bones in my face but-“  
  
“They’ll heal,” Lewis says, squeezing Nico’s fingers as though to comfort him. “I’m guessing you don’t want to give any interviews to anyone?”  
  
“I’ve just had the crap kicked out of me, I don’t want another fight with the press, thanks,” Nico says, unable to keep the smile off his face, the adrenaline is beginning to wear off, the blood still falling down his face, the ache returning to every one of his bones.   
  
However, the crowd’s noise seems to increase as suddenly, Nico finds Schumacher in front of him, he’s still holding his ribs and the pain is slowly making its way through his mangled face.  
  
“You were a worthy opponent, Nico Rosberg, I was wrong about you,” Schumacher says, his gloved hand hitting Nico’s shoulder playfully. “You are so much more than your father,”  
  
“I’m my own person,” Nico says.  
  
“And I respect you for that,” Schumacher says.  
  
And that’s the biggest victory Nico could ask for – it’s worth more than his absent father, than anything the papers say about him. Nico watches Schumacher walk away, his hands still threaded around Lewis’s as he glances at the brown eyes.  
  
“You okay?” Lewis asks with worry.  
  
“Never better,” Nico replies truthfully.  His fingers tighten around Lewis’s.


End file.
